Meet Me at the Lighthouse Page 11

  “Aww. Good lad.” He bent to tickle the little Westie between the ears. “Finally decided your Uncle Ross isn’t so bad, eh?”

  Monty let out a short bark and galloped off to scamper around the lighthouse.

  “Was that a yes?” Ross asked, turning to me.

  I laughed. “No, he’s asking you to chase him. But we’d better get the lighthouse stuff done before we play with the dog.”

  Inside, the lighthouse was a mass of wires and cable reels. Workmen were part-way through installing large speakers up the side of the tapered walls, to give our audiences the best experience of the acts performing beneath them.

  “Looks like they’ve still got a lot to do,” I said.

  “Well, they reckon they’ll be done by next week.” Ross sounded doubtful.

  I glared at him. “You better not’ve hired a bunch of cowboys to fit our speakers, Mason. Where’d you find them?”

  “My dad recommended them.”

  “Oh Jesus Christ. This is going to turn into a Fawlty Towers episode, isn’t it?”

  He looked amused, like he always did when he thought I was being stroppy. “It’s fine, Bobbie. I checked out their reviews online, they’re a five-star company. I’ll give them a call later and check they’re still on schedule.”

  I skimmed the room. It seemed like a lot of detritus for workmen who were supposedly nearly finished.

  “Let me do it. You’ll go too easy on them.”

  “All right, bossy knickers, I’ll give you the number,” he said with a grin. “So what about fundraising ideas? You got any?”

  “One. It’ll take a bit of planning, but… well, you’re a musician, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, I get you.” He gave me a knowing nod. “Geldof this bastard. Charity single.”

  “Not exactly. Was thinking more of a benefit gig.”

  He frowned. “What, here? But there’s no space, we won’t get the balconies in for ages.”

  “I didn’t mean inside.”

  “Oh. Oh! Right. Yeah, that might work.” His eyes kindled into lighthouse fever as the idea took hold. “Big thing to organise, but I can definitely see it. Marquee, stage, barrier fencing to keep people away from the cliff edge. And then the bar inside the lighthouse, yeah? Let people get a look at what they’re backing.”

  “Exactly, like your thinking. And maybe a barbecue, we can borrow that big one of the Crown’s.” I pondered for a second. “A charity single’s not a bad idea, you know. We could sell it at the gig.”

  “We could, couldn’t we? I could write something.” Ross’s fingers were twitching as if he couldn’t wait to get back to his guitar and thrash out some ideas. “Right. Come on.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me through the door.

  He didn’t waste any time, striding around outside to gauge the size of the area.

  “Ok, so there’s room for a stage here in front of the cliffs. Probably best, keep people as far from the fencing as possible,” he said, sweeping his arm across the balding, chalky area that bled off the edge of the crag.

  I walked over to the grassy wasteland in front of the lighthouse and spread my arms. “And we could get a marquee here for a bit of shelter.”

  Ross frowned. “How much is all this going to cost though? Marquee hire doesn’t come cheap, Bobbie. Nor does sound equipment. We’ve already put bids in to all the major funders for the renovation work, we don’t want to push our luck.”

  “Well, we can go on the scrounge.” I grinned. “Sorry, good-looking. I’m going to have to pimp you out.”

  “Oh God. I don’t have to lap dance for the chairwoman of the WI, do I?” He turned his eyes up to the sky. “Again,” he muttered.

  I giggled. “No, fluttering your eyelashes should do the trick. First I want you to go see the vicar, see if she’d loan us the church’s big marquee. Then when you’ve shown her a good time you can try your luck with the manager at Cragport Playhouse, they’ve got a collapsible stage. I’ll find out what paperwork we need from Alex.”

  Ross scowled. “Do we have to involve him?”

  “If we want the council on side. You know what Langford’s like about noise, he might try to block the whole thing.”

  “Hmm.”

  I laughed. “Come on, don’t be grumpy. You were in a good mood a minute ago.”

  “Can’t help it. That guy winds me right up, with his Mr Nice act. I don’t know how you stand to be around him after what he did to you.”

  “At least he’s trying to make amends. That free storage he sorted out saved us a packet.” I sighed. “I’m not saying it’s easy, Ross, but in a small town where you can’t avoid each other you just have to deal. It’s all right for you, with the missus all the way over in Sheffield.”

  “It wasn’t the same with me and Claire though. The split was pretty amicable, as these things go.” He gave a resigned shrug. “Fine, it’s your decision. If you think Alex can help, go ahead and ask.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, love.”

  “Well, let’s not talk about him. Come on, back to planning,” he said, tapping the lighthouse wall. “How much will we charge per ticket?”

  “Depends what acts we can get, I suppose,” I said. “Don’t know Led Zep, do you?”

  “’Fraid not. I once stood next to Peter Frampton at a urinal in Leeds, any good?”

  “Not unless he gave you his number, in which case I’d have something entirely different to worry about.”

  “Sadly not, just a dirty look for breaking the male code and giving him side-eyes. Still, I’d say that served him right for being Peter Frampton.”

  “So who else have you got?” I asked. “Don’t suppose you ever met Alice Cooper while you were out cottaging?”

  “No, just a few MPs.” He shrugged. “I know some good acts based locally. What sort of thing were you thinking?”

  “Oh, crowd pleasers. Rocky stuff, folky stuff, indie. Span the generations.” I smiled. “Hey, why don’t you headline? Your stuff’s got broad appeal.”

  “Ha! You must be joking.”

  “I mean it, Ross. You’re the talent round here, you should play a set.”

  “What, a crappy pub singer? We couldn’t give tickets away, love.”

  “Give over, you’re not a crappy pub singer.” I sank down against the lighthouse wall and patted the grass next to me. “Here.”

  “All right, but not too close, eh?” he said, sitting down beside me.

  “You don’t really think that, do you?” I said gently. “You must know your stuff’s good.”

  “Some days I think so. I’ll write a snatch of something, a lyric, a few chords, and think it sounds pretty awesome. But then I’ll listen to someone with proper talent and know I’ll never produce anything that good.”

  “But you are that good. Honest.”

  He smiled. “As good as what, Bobbie?”

  “As good as anything.” On a sudden impulse I reached for him, drawing my fingers slowly down his rough, chiselled cheek. My thumbtip came to rest at the corner of his lips. “You’re a very gifted man, Ross Mason.”

  He stopped my fingers with his, pressing my hand against his face. “Oh God, Bobbie, don’t…” he whispered.

  I could feel myself leaning towards him, the urge to kiss him overruling everything else; and Ross, as if magnetised, was moving towards me. For a moment there was nothing but Ross, absorbing me into his caramel musk, and the wind and the lighthouse and the hypnotic whispers of the sea…

  But before our lips could meet, a jealous Monty jumped on my lap with a loud yap and the spell was broken.

  Ross sighed, dropping my hand. “Thanks a lot, mate,” he said to the little dog. “Just when I was starting to like you as well.”

  “You were right, he is useful for killing the mood,” I said, swallowing a frustrated groan. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll be safe in the pub.” I glared at Monty. “Come on, you little… dog. You can go home to annoy Aunty Jess and Uncle Gareth.”

  “Oh, something I
wanted to ask,” Ross said when we’d locked up. “You free a week Friday?”

  “For planning?”

  “No, I’m playing. Wondered if you wanted to come. It’s not a long set, we can have a drink after.”

  “What?” I frowned. “Sounds a bit datey, Ross.”

  “It’s not, it’s research. I’m on at The Cellar in South Bay – performance space, a bit like our thing. A mate of mine bought it when it was a run-down beer cellar and did it up as a music venue. I thought we could scope the place out, see what we can learn.”

  “Oh.” I hesitated. “Go on then. If there’s other people we can’t get too naughty.”

  “So I’ll pick you up at 7?”

  “Ok. See you then.”

  Chapter 14

  “Hey,” Ross said as we clambered out of his Mini in the neighbouring town of South Bay, just a little bit further down the coast towards Whitby. “You know what today is?”

  “International Pie Day?”

  “No. Well, probably, it’s always international something day. But it’s our anniversary as well.”

  “Bloody hell, is it?”

  “Yep. Four months since I let a pretty girl buy me a tequila slammer and woke up with my own lighthouse.” He smiled at me as we retrieved his guitar case from the boot. “Glad you’re a bad influence, Bobbie.”

  I smiled back. “Me too.”

  “You look nice tonight,” he said, scanning my outfit.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I’d dressed up for a change in a white satin top of Jess’s with a lotus flower pattern, a pair of bootcut jeans and high heels with a floral motif to match the top. “Hope I’ve got it right, didn’t know the kind of place it was.”

  Ross shrugged. “Anything goes in The Cellar. Anyway, you look great. I mean, you always look great. But tonight you look extra great.”

  “Back at you.” He was looking pretty sizzling in a black blazer and matching shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled to the elbow, with his usually tousled hair smartly gelled.

  “Ta. I was going for young Johnny Cash, think I pulled it off?”

  “Nah. Young Ross Mason’s much hotter.”

  He tweaked my earlobe. “Sweet talker. Come on then, time to break up the mutual admiration society.”

  “So what’re you playing tonight?” I asked, following him to the entrance.

  “It’s only a short set, there’s another five acts on. Probably just do three or four favourites, maybe chuck in something new.”

  He looked flushed. I gave his arm a swift squeeze while we navigated the uneven stone steps down to The Cellar.

  “Not nervous?”

  “A bit. Funny, no matter how long you do this the stage fright never leaves you.” We reached the bottom step and he barged open the heavy door.

  It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I mean, if you go to a place called The Cellar that’s in a cellar, you expect something that looks like – well, a cellar. Apart from the whitewashed beer barrel tables giving the place a slight smugglers’ cave vibe, it was about as unlike a cellar as you could get. To borrow a favourite phrase of Mum’s, it looked like a tart’s boudoir. Red-glowing art deco lamps on every table, bevel-mirrored walls, pink ostrich plumes all over the place…

  “I hope we didn’t come for decorating tips,” I whispered to Ross as we weaved our way through the crowded tables. “Bit flapper chic, isn’t it?”

  “You’ll get it when you meet the owner, he’s on bar tonight. Oh, er… better brace yourself, he fancies himself as a ladies’ man.”

  When we got to the large mahogany bar, Ross propped up his guitar case and reached across to slap his friend on the arm.

  “Hiya, Travis. How’re you keeping, matey?”

  The young man serving drinks was just as offbeat as The Cellar itself. If someone had heard of steampunk but never seen a picture, they’d probably look like Ross’s mate Travis.

  His yellow hair was long and foppish, combed over the back of his head then curled up at the ends: very Brideshead Revisited. He was wearing a stripy pink and white blazer that looked like it might once have upholstered a deckchair, with a – yes, it was as well – not a tie but a cravat, a pink bloody cravat. His bobbly eyes were coloured in with dark eyeliner, and for some reason he had a pair of those steampunky goggles round his neck. The whole aura was of someone trying too hard to prove he had Personality with a capital P. Still, he was grinning happily enough so he obviously felt the look was working for him.

  “Hiya, Mason, long time no see,” he said to Ross. “How’s the graphic design business?”

  “Just about keeping me in baked beans and shoe leather. When am I on then?”

  “I put you fourth on the bill.” Travis nodded at me. “You going to introduce your girlfriend?”

  “Oh, she’s not – er, this is my partner Bobbie. I mean my business partner.” Ross looked flustered, and I jumped in to rescue him.

  “Hi,” I said to Travis. “I’m an old friend of Ross’s. We’re working on the lighthouse project together, sure he’s filled you in.”

  I stretched my hand over the bar for him to shake. Instead, Travis lifted it to his mouth and pressed his lips against the backs of my fingers.

  Eurghh, hand kisser: hated those. When this guy decided to go the full Edwardian he didn’t muck about.

  “Charmed. Bobbie, was it?” he said in an affected drawl. Sounded pretty odd with the Yorkshire accent coming through underneath.

  “All right, smoothie, don’t push it,” Ross said with a smile. “Get us a Coke and a glass of white wine then and we’ll have a chat. We want to pick your brains.”

  “Whatever the gentleman wants.” Travis turned to sort out our drinks.

  “So what can I assist the pair of you with?” he asked when he’d dumped two glasses in front of us, leaning up on his elbows.

  “We were hoping you’d tell us how you got this place off the ground,” I said. “See if we can learn anything useful.”

  “Free business advice? Well, anything for a beautiful lady.” He flashed me a smirk he obviously thought exuded sex appeal, and just the hint of a wink from one gooseberry-like eye.

  Oh God. Ross was right, this was going to be hard work.

  “Hey, she seeing anyone?” Travis whispered audibly to Ross.

  “Yeah, Trav. Six-foot-seven cage fighter with tattoos up to his eyeballs. They call him Cuddles.”

  “Funny.” Travis turned back to me. “Well, are you? Because if not there’s no charge for the wine.”

  I rummaged in my handbag and slapped a note on the bar. “There’s your answer. Come on, mate, stop flirting. No offence but you’re not very good at it.”

  “Yeah, but I am keen.” He shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind let me know. What do you need then?”

  “Whatever you’ve got,” Ross said.

  “How far along are you?”

  “Had the place insulated for acoustics, repainted, got some speakers in with grant money we got. Just getting the electrics and plumbing done and organising a fundraiser we hope’ll pay for the bottle bar to be installed. Oh, and we’ve got a bid in for lottery money to cover balconies. That’ll be the most expensive thing.”

  Travis looked impressed. “Not bad for four months’ work.”

  “Ta, mate, been going at it pretty hard. So how did you do it?”

  “Bit different for me. All the renovations had to come out of my own pocket.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “How’d you pay for that, you a baronet or something?”

  He tossed me another suggestive grin from his obviously abundant store. “Mainly through selling my body to women who wanted a good time, if you must know. Back then they called me The Orgasm Machine. Minimum three per session guaranteed if you fancy a go on me, love. And for you, no charge.”

  I turned to Ross. “How did he really do it?”

  “His dad left him a house.”

  Travis glared at him. “Thanks for the cockblock, mate. Back in the day, me and you
used to have a rule about playing along with chat-ups when we were on the pull.”

  “Well we’re big boys now, Trav. And to be fair, you as a gigolo was never going to fly no matter how much I backed you up. So what did all this cost you then?”

  He shrugged. “Hundred grand, thereabouts.”

  “Christ!” I looked around the room. “Still, you could probably’ve saved ten grand on plucked ostriches if things were tight.”

  Travis gave Ross a conspiratorial nod. “That’s the way I like them, Mason. Funny and stroppy.”

  Ross shot me a mischievous wink. “Double trouble with this one as well, Trav. Bobbie’s a twin, you know.”

  “Bloody hell.” Travis stood up straight, looking interested. “What kind?”

  “Why, how many kinds are there?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s the creepy kind and the sexy kind.”

  “Oh. Well not the creepy kind, I hope.”

  “Yeah? In that case, the two of you ever considered film work? I know this guy, really classy stuff, black and white and everything…”

  “Seriously, you’re cracking out ‘I can get you into pictures’?” I rolled my eyes at him. “Didn’t realise your vintage obsession extended to antique chat-up lines.”

  “You don’t mess with the classics,” he said with a shrug.

  “Well before you ask, I don’t want to come upstairs and look at your etchings, I haven’t read any good books lately and I don’t want to see your bloody elephant impression. Anyway, we’re not identical, which I’m guessing is what you were angling for.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Can’t have everything, I suppose. Offer’s there anyway.”

  “So can we get back on the topic if you’ve got the sexy twin talk out of your system?” Ross asked. “Where did the hundred grand go, Trav? Apart from dyeing all those poor ostriches pink.”

  “There was all sorts needed doing,” Travis said, waving an arm vaguely around the room. “Bar licence, stage, furniture, toilets. Soundproofing so we don’t disturb the neighbours. Don’t suppose that’s something you have to worry about.”

  “Any tips?”

  Travis pondered for a moment. “Well… don’t DIY it unless you know what you’re doing, it’ll end up costing you more down the line. Make the most of charity shops for decorating, you can save a fortune. Get four quotes minimum for any work – oh, and come to me when you’re ready to install your balconies, I know a guy.”